


i am made of memories

by Iamamessofawriter



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Crossover, How Do I Tag, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Reincarnation, achilles isnt actually here, b/c fuck you, but he has a couple refrences, i swear i dont usually write like this, im making patroclus a demigod in this reincarnation, no beta we die like men, sorry to everyone who hates 2nd pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iamamessofawriter/pseuds/Iamamessofawriter
Summary: Patroclus is the first to arrive
Relationships: Patroclus & Chiron
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	i am made of memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Sorry about the formatting, I'm still trying to figure out ao3. This idea has been on my mind for a while, I just had to get it out. Hope you enjoy.

Patroclus was the first to arrive. He came in no rain of glory, but rather a trudge of mud and blood. The sun had just crested the hill as you saw his shadow run towards the field and away from a bumbling cyclops. A satyr chases next to him, his hand in a white death grip against your old student’s dark skin. Your campers run to meet the pair, the few that are awake at this hour. 

They reach them right as Patroclus and the satyr cross the border Thalias tree forms. 

You see him stumble as the satyr trips, but he quickly pulls the satyr to the side. You turn back to the Blue House as a sword vaporizes the cyclops, looking forward to meeting your old disciple in this new form.  
. . . 

He calls himself Peter. The name is suitable, if too short for him. He seems unsurprised when he sees your equisetum side, although that may be the shock. He is quick to take to the mythology world, almost too quick. You see his eyes widen in awe at the sprawling campground, but merely nod when the gods are introduced. It is as if he knows about them forever. 

He did, you suppose, in another life. Another life in another country, fighting a different war. But he does not remember the other wold. You can see it in the way he speaks stilted Greek, the way he has yet to have sure hands that hold no tremor. 

You see it in the way he doesn’t know who his missing half is, the way he ignores the way his chest aches with the need for someone.  
. . .

Your interactions with him are strange. He talks to you with a familiarity you haven’t seen since Annabeth last talked to you, but his movements are hesitant, unsure. You believe he is aching to remember you, you can see in his eyes, yet there is a barrier he knows not how to cross. It saddens you to see him act distant, but you know you must have patience.

Rome was not built in a day. You would know, you were there.  
. . .

He is a son of Apollo. 

There is a strange sort of irony in the matter, and you suppose this is the Fate’s idea of a joke. He seems angry when the burning sun appears above his dark curls, stomping out of the healing tent where he had just healed a fatal wound. He reconciles soon enough, moving his meager possessions into the Apollo cabin. He soon becomes a constant presence in the healing tent, his now steady hands healing with an ability you haven’t seen in ages.

He starts to remember soon after.  
. . .

A stray arrow finds its way into a daughter of Demeter during capture the flag. She is close to where you are, and you are about to galloping over when Patroclus - Peter, you suppose - gets there first. 

He whispers reassurance to the fallen girl, holding her head as she groans. He says something you cannot hear before snapping the shaft of the arrow, pulling the head out of her back, and covering the wound. He does not rely on the magic he could’ve had, and it strikes a strange sense of pride in you. The feeling grows when you see him grab nearby berries to create a paste that fights infection. 

You taught him that a lifetime ago. He has to begin to remember who he was, you can see the memories flooding his mind. 

You trot away before he notices your smile.  
. . .

He makes few friends, but the ones he does he holds close.  
There is a son of Athena, named Dio, who is fierce to the last bone. He seems strikingly familiar, but you push the thought of him away. He was not your student, you treat him as any other camper.

It is the son of Hephaestus that intrigues you more. He goes by Odin. It does not seem like he and Patroclus would be friends, but they are despite. Odin fights with a fervor that strikes you senseless, and he hates the god with the same passion. He has a particular dislike towards Posideden that worries you for when he meets Percy. You do not know the reason for this loathing, not really, but you have warned him not to anger the gods. 

He had laughed with a cruel smile and replied, “They have given me no reason to not.” 

You do not dwell on his response.  
. . . 

When summer is coming to a close, you extend the offer of staying year-round to all campers. You see the grief in Patroclus’s expression when he turns down the offer, and you ache to tell him to stay. You do not. You’ve learned better. 

You watch with sad eyes as he crests the hill once again.  
. . .

He’s back by December. He walks back into camp with deject strides and a haunted look in his eyes.

Dio rushes to his side as he makes eye contact with you. His endless stare pins even you down, the way his eyes are brimming with emotion that only comes from experiencing years of war. 

You can see now, in the way his shoulders are raised, in the stillness of his hands, in those haunted eyes, that he has remembered his old life. You do not know what happened when he was home, but it was not good. Bad enough to bring back a life full of fighting and blood and pain. 

You hope he will not always keep that haunted look.

You hear him crying by the lake later that night.  
. . .

He is the first to come, but he is not the last.  
. . .

{to be contiuned}

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked that! Please leave any criticism or thoughts in the comments. If you're into Fablehaven or Keeper of the Lost Cities, go check out my other work. My tumblr's [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wherediputtheeggs), and my twitter [here](https://twitter.com/wherediputthee1).


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